Apocalypse
by KiaMianara
Summary: Somewhere along the line the world he had known had turned into a nightmare and all he could do was hold on and hope it was over soon.


AU, OneShot, Mature for Horror/Disturbing Imagery

This story is set in an undefined AU and a one shot. There won't be a prequel or sequel or anything, because it's based on a nightmare of mine and I can really go without repeating that experience.

Don't get me wrong, Batman is my favourite hero ever since I was 5 and will be for life, but I don't read fanfictions or even the DC comics.

At this point I usually I say "enjoy", but given the nature of the story ... I'm not sure if I should wish for you to be as disturbed as I have been (because I've been creped out all day), but please leave me a comment on what you think.

* * *

><p>He can't do his job anymore.<p>

The nights are the worst, when it started; he can't remember when. The days are safe, mostly, not really, not real; people, moving, living, breathing, but shifted.

Not real, illusion. The prophet's knew it first. No more signs reading "the end is near". They were past that point for who knew how long already, so why keep warning?

The nights are worse, so much worse. No pretending, no illusions, blood everywhere and fire and the city, the world is falling apart, crumbling, bit by bit.

He can't do his job, Batman's job anymore. Bruce had entrusted him with Gotham and now it is lost to ...

Blood, more blood, rivers in the streets, his doing, Batman's doing, all he can do. Kill the worst subjects, hope to prevent escalation, fail, because everything is lost already to ... he doesn't know. It is his fault, has to be, he fails at his job, but there is also an external factor. Which? He doesn't know.

Can't handle it, never could.

He tries to keep Damian out of it, also fails, always fails, but now they are safe, Bruce and Damian and Alfred, too. He had saved them, the only way he knew.

During the day things looked normal, shifted, illusion, Gotham was long since lost.

He can't do Batman's job, can't handle it anymore.

He had called Jason and Tim, asked them to come. They will arrive tonight, but the afternoon is already lost to darkness, not safe.

Blood on the streets, makes no difference anymore, another life lost. Waiting. Despite the darkness the train station is calm, groups, waiting, like he. Train station, city centre, epicentre, should have known, shouldn't have called them.

Stay calm, wait for Jason and Tim, should be here any moment. He's a wreck, they will see, knew already, but maybe ... will they understand? His fault, all his fault, but ...

Something happens, an explosion? Fire, everywhere, panicking masses, but Jason and Tim, where are they? Which gate, which level?

Running, screaming their names, many scream names, most just plain scream, many forever silent now, but different; they are different, don't count, only his voice is real, only he gets real answers.

Ever shifting masses, rivers of blood, familiar now. Is that a dragon, another explosion?

There! Finally, real, their arms around him and each others' and his around them and everything stops.

.

.

.

Tiniest moment of peace, as if everything could one day be alright again, but it won't.

Leave, they had to get away; safety, another illusion, needed. Pushing and pulling, never with the masses, vertical to them, always in contact, never letting go.

He can't do his job, but he can hold on.

They rest, somewhere, not home, because home doesn't exist anymore and never will again.

They look him over and each other, he does the same. They had aged, more than natural, so had he. Wreck, worn down, tired, all of them. Surface, flat, soft, a mattress? Junk yard, a mess, not as bad as the city, doesn't matter, and still their arms around him, holding, hold on, but asking, asking about everything.

What happened? Where is everyone?

He breaks down. Spills everything, all he knows, not much, except that it's bad, so bad its off the scale. Gotham would never recover from this, _he_ couldn't recover from this.

He can't do his job anymore, hadn't been for the longest time, but he had held on, had been able to do it, for Bruce and Damian and Alfred, too. He had done it, they are safe now, would forever be safe. It had been the easiest, the hardest job he had ever done, but he can't do it anymore. He can't do his job anymore.

Pressure, the real arms. Fear of more pain, can't take it anymore, should have called them sooner, shouldn't have called them at all ...

He can't do his job anymore.

Real hands and real smiles, understanding. Jason and Tim understood, better than he, held on, onto him, onto each other.

Tears, his, theirs, it didn't matter.

"It's alright, Dick. That's what you have us for."

"You did right. Rest now, brother. We will handle it."

He sighs, relieved, sinks into arms, real arms. Not failure, done well, raging mind slowing down, coming to rest for the first time in what seemed forever.

Dick Grayson sighs again, then closes his eyes to never wake again.

**THE END**


End file.
